When I Say Run, RUN
by TimeLordFury
Summary: The world has gone to chaos. The dead don't stay dead and everyone is joining them. The few remaining survivors fight everyday for another day. Everyday just surviving, not living. John Watson has been doing exactly this until one day a stranger appears in his life. This stranger is Sherlock Holmes.


_I've completely decided to rewrite an old fic on mine.  
The story starts a few months into the apocalypse. Zombie apocalypse in case you're wondering. Hopefully I stick to the characters but remember people change when trying to survive so please don't kill me if I change them slightly! Any flaws please feel free to point them out to me so I can make the story better, your opinion always helps. Please be kind though, I have feelings!_

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It was a quiet night. The night were always quiet then. The blackness of night enveloped the country house. With the only light coming from the distant stars or the odd ray of moonlight shining though the clouds. Of course, pure silence is almost impossible. The source of sound came from within the house. Upstairs, in the main bedroom, where a small gathering of blankets hid a short shaking man. The shadow tossed and turned, moaned and groaned. Only one word escaped his lips. Mary.

This shadow of a man was John Watson.

One hand tucked underneath the pillow was gripping the handle of a loaded Colt M1911. John had learned it was quicker to pull out the gun from under his pillow, flick off the safety and shoot. Than to reach over towards the bedside table and repeat the process.

Nightmares were a usually occurrence for the short soldier. Since the Outbreak, John had grown accustomed to the nightly torment. Most nights he would wake up with a cold sweat, splash some water on his face and check the house's barricades. They were newly built and feeble, John hadn't planned to spend much time here. He had planned to keep moving. Stripping each passing house of their valuables, and march his way through England until he finally reached an end. These plans were quickly interrupted by the sound of glass shattering downstairs.

"Shit!"

John bolted upright, the gun following him. Safety now off. The darkness completely shrouded the room. Except for a small trickle of moonlight seeping through the curtains. Pulling himself out of a stupor, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. If there was anything worse than the undead, it was the living. The undead were thick, slow and extremely unpredictable. It was when the dead won, when the living became a real threat. Survivors became cold, cunning and ruthless.

Making sure there was a round in the chamber, John pulled back the slide of the gun before slowly opening the door. John could feel the coldness of the Autumn night through his t-shirt. Despite John's carefulness a small creak would emit from the odd step, but there was still no sign of the intruder. As he approached the end of the staircase, the sound of presses closing and faint muttering could be heard. It sounded like a single raider, easier to deal with. Especially since John had the element of surprise. His thought's proved to be correct when he sneaked past the doors into the kitchen. There a tall man busied himself with most of John's food supplies. The man was frantically searching through the cupboards throwing the contents into a bag.

He seemed to halter for a moment, making John fear that he had been discovered. Luckily, no sooner than he had stopped, he turned to the next cupboard and began to empty the contents of within it into his bag. John swallowed hard before raising his weapon towards the intruder. Walkers were much easier to deal with. They weren't people anymore, they weren't able to feel, love, care and dead. People were harder to kill because, well they were human, they were just doing the same as John, fighting for tomorrow. John only killed when he was left without a choice. So he waited, finger brushing against the trigger.

"If you're not going to shoot me, then you can help me."

John blinked, making sure he had heard that right. The man was clearly taller than John, by a few inches at least. But in the man only carried a can of beans in each hand while John carried the only weapon.

"If you think I'm going to leave you waltz in here and steal my fo-" began John.

"I didn't dance, I sneaked." the man droned. "I didn't deduce that you were such a light sleeper, unfortunately."

The mysterious man, turned around and raised his two hands, still holding the beans. He was still hidden in the shadows but John could now tell that he was thin. Extremely thin, with wild unkempt hair.

"Oi, one for step closer and that will be the last one you ever take." John steadied his arm. He had no fear of killing a man, he'd done it plenty of times before. In the army, it was all in defense, and now was no different.

"I'm hungry." replied the man, not seeming to care about the gun. "I never intended to harm you just-"

"Just rob me blind." John finished for him.

"It was only half, I even left you your precious chocolate and tea bags."

"And you expect me to survive of just tea and chocolate?"

"Most people usually did before.. this."

John released a sarcastic laugh, his weapon waving slightly.

"We could share." suggested the man.

This idea took John by surprise. He considered it, considering he haven't had a chance to talk to anyone in weeks by now. The last time he met someone she tried to shoot his head off and rob him, she wasn't the only one either. Everyone, who was still capable of breathing that is, changed since the beginning of the pandemic. Friends turned on each other for that last can. Civilization, laws, society had collapsed withing a fortnight. What chance had John trying to calm down a hysterical woman while she was demanding to give him everything he had. Yet, now this man was willing to talk, which was much more than what most people were willing to do now.

The stranger noticed John's consideration and lowered his hands until they rested calmly by his side. John shook his head not believing what he was about to do and lowered his weapon.

"Well hope you like your beans cold." There was no chance in hell that he was cooking at this hour.

"Delightful." came the sarcastic reply. The man approached him baring a smile that John knew was only to be polite.

John took the two cans from his hands and made his way towards the counter top. There was the sound of a chair being pulled out and the figure plonked onto it. John glanced back to catch a glimpse of his strange guests face properly, but as the moon resided behind the clouds. The room was suddenly submerged into darkness again. John took out a candle and lit it. The mans face flickered under the little flame. His brown, dark unkempt curls falling over his shallow face. A strong jawline stuck out under the dark stubble, with black circles resting under his sunken eyes. It was the face of a man who hadn't eaten or slept in days.

He sat there wearing a trench coat with his hands resting on the table twiddling his thumbs as if he'd been there his entire life. John fumbled with the can opener until he finally managed to get it open. He made a mental note to find a more decent can opener the next day. Pouring the contents into a bowl he noticed the stranger was staring intensely right at him. Even in the candle light John couldn't help but notice the air of intelligence that surrounded the man. He had to remind himself that this man, he had never seen in his life and of the potential danger he was in. In fact, his intelligence only made him more dangerous. After a few seconds John decided to break the longing silence.

"So.. who are you?" he asked lowering his gaze towards the preserved meal.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes. Ex," His voice trembled as if reminding himself of his past profession was painful. "consulting detective."

"John. John Watson."

Sherlock stood up and stretched out his arm, attempting to give him a warm smile but John noticed the smile played only on his lips. His eyes remained cold, calculating.

"Pleasure."

Politeness didn't suit this age, but it suited this moment. John placed the bowl onto the table and half-heartily shook it. It felt weird, common courtesy was no longer common but it was still a pleasant feeling. The mans hand were strong, tough as he gave a firm handshake but also freezing. John wondered how long he was out alone for. Sherlock quickly released him to start his meal. John sat himself at the other end of the table, his gun ready just in-case. He had emptied out a can for himself and began to slowly spoon the contents into his mouth, not taking his sight off the man across from him.

Sherlock looked up at the light source and then to check the windows, if the blinds were closed.

"Dinner and a candle, how.. romantic."

"Funny.." John muttered.

John smiled. He had actually smiled. It felt strange. John hadn't smiled in months and yet this stranger appears in his life and within ten minutes in the company of him, John's smiling. Sherlock gave him a swift tight-lipped smile in return before devouring his meal. When Sherlock scooped the last of the soup into his mouth, he picked up the bowl and placed it in the sink. His hand wavered over the tap for a moment then it fell direfully by his side. His mouth opened, before pausing as if he was pondering on the right words to say.

"Thank you, John."

It took a moment for the words to register to John, but when he did he just shrugged them off.

"Well you didn't try and bash my head in."

Sherlock looked out the window to the blackness outside. It was dangerous out there during the day, even worse at night. It was a miracle that Sherlock even made it to this house, it would be suicide going out there again. John knew what he was thinking, his fingers tightened around his weapon again. John was willing to fight and die for this place, he was kind enough to let him have his meal and then move on. Kindness was view as weak now.

Sherlock bent down to retrieve his bag causing John to nervously stand up and re-aim his weapon at Sherlock. Instead of taking out a weapon Sherlock simply threw the bag onto his back, ready to take his leave. Giving John a small nod he took a few steps towards the door. John then made a sudden decision.

"You can spend the night here. I mean as long as you don't do anything rash. You can stay in one of the spare rooms."

His own outburst stunned himself, in his grieving he pushed away anyone who offered to help. Sherlock just looked at him with his head slightly tilted. John couldn't help but feel like he was being examined. Truth be told, he probably was.

"Okay." came the reply.

He pulled his scarf from around his neck and took off his coat. John leaned over the table and blew out the little flame. When he looked up the man was gone. John could hear a small creak from upstairs telling him where Sherlock had gone to. A strange feeling began to form in John. Was it hope, happiness or even affection. Processing these thoughts John trudged upstairs and fell into his bed. By the time he collapsed onto the mattress he realised what he felt. Hope. A feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. Chances were that by the time he woke up Sherlock will have already left, taking his 'half' with him.

A light snore assured him that his housemate was already asleep.

"What's the point of living if there's nobody to live it with anyway." thought John. "Even if he kills me tonight I couldn't care less." John doubted it. He already began to trust the stranger with the dark curls. And with these thoughts he drifted into a dreamless sleep, for the first time in months.


End file.
